hair

A couple weeks back, David sent me a photo he took of me last summer. It was a candid shot; I wasn’t even looking at the camera. I was sitting at a bar, naturally on my phone. We had spent the day in Brooklyn watching the World Cup and bar hoping around seeing friends. It was a great day, being tipsy and giddy. 

I responded via text: “Wow. I miss that girl.” 

David responded: “You are that girl! My girl.”

That girl must have had a blow out that week that I can’t remember because her hair looked fucking amazing. It was perfect. Almost black, long, voluminous and shiny. I might sound like I’m bragging but I no longer have it and I realize how much I took it for granted. I was in a sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers but my hair made me look like a woman. 

I couldn’t help but cry looking at that photo. And maybe cry again when I looked in the mirror, missing that hair, that femininity, and knowing I would never be that same person again. 

Don’t get me wrong, I actually don’t hate being bald. I’ve enjoyed the luxury of not worrying about my hair - yes, luxury! It’s quite liberating to get out of the shower and not have to put a towel around my head. Stashing away my brushes, hair ties, hair products, hair dryer and straighteners clears up space and TIME! And I rejoice at not having to make sure I have a hair elastic in my bag or god forbid on my wrist. (Side note: I’ll never forget being corrected to take one off of my wrist before an interview. It was insulting at the time but learned to appreciate the tip.) 

And I actually really don’t hate the look of being bald. It’s not ideal but it’s something different and I’ve always enjoyed being a little unique. To be completely honest, I have these little hairs that stuck around and I wish they would go away! I’d rather just be fully bald and smooth. And I feel like those hairs give away the cancer. If I were completely bald maybe people would think I’m just really edgy!!!! 

I’ve liked the look enough that I haven’t changed my mind on a wig (too expensive & too uncomfortable for me). 

And while I don’t wear scarves day-to-day, I do wear them to work out classes and on weekends. Mostly for more sun protection but also as a type of security when I’m in vulnerable situations. I live and work in downtown Manhattan and I’m not usually the strangest looking person on the street. So scarves are great for more conservative environments. Or when I’m around kids and I don’t want them to feel uncomfortable. Or when I’m just not feeling that comfortable. 

But my real security are my Jennifer Fisher Baby Samira hoops. I didn’t wear earrings day-to-day until about four years ago when my dad bought me my first pair of diamond studs. They were a part of my uniform. But when I shaved my head, I needed something more to make me feel feminine and also divert everyone’s eyes from my scalp to my face. The hoops frame my face and give me an extra boost of confidence when I get dressed every morning. They hang alongside my neck where my hair previously laid and give me a sense of protection that I lack without my mane. 

But here’s the thing, as much as I have accepted my bald head, there is still a vulnerability that I can’t escape. It’s like that dream where you are naked in a classroom and there’s no where to hide. I never know if I’m going to be stared at, pitied, or awkwardly not recognized. I’ve used humor in uncomfortable work situations by saying “new haircut” to someone who has asked if we’ve met but deep down I’ve hit peak anxiety. Especially because I don’t want my illness to effect my professional life as well as my patience. 

And now as my eyebrows and eyelashes slowly fade, I look more and more sick at the end of the day when I wipe away the makeup helping to disguise health. It’s depressing because I’m actually supposed to be coming to the end of this journey but it’s a reminder that the journey never really ends. 

So I guess that’s why I was so emotionally  torn up about that photo that David sent me. It’s not like I’m going to get my last dose of chemo this week and then go back to having a full head of dark hair. It’s going to take months and years to grow back to the hair length that reminds me of me. And until then, each time I look in the mirror I’m reminded of the cancer and what the chemo did to me. But maybe that will never go away. Because I will never be that same girl again. It’s more than the chemo. It’s the double mastectomy, it’s the fertility and it’s also the fact that I lived through all of this without my dad.

My mom kissed my bald head last night before I went to bed and she said that she loves it because it reminds her of kissing my dads head. I sometimes wonder how he would handle seeing me like this. I wonder how we would swap stories about the nurses and compare side effects, appetite and constipation. I also wonder how he would try to console me, pump me up and encourage me. But what I really wonder is how he would tell me I still look like me yet make an amazingly funny joke about how we’re both cancer patients. 

Well, I thought this post was going to be my delayed love letter to my hair and even my former self but I’m glad it’s not. I hope instead it’s an acceptance letter that hair isn’t everything. It can’t be. As much as I miss Drybar and as much as I wish I could sport one of the chic Lele Sadoughi headbands I’ve had my eye on, I’m getting my health back. And I’ll take health over hair any day.